Bodies on the Shore
by Elcie
Summary: COMPLETED! An EC Leroux based fiction. What if Christine did not have the resolve to approach Erik as his "living bride" when Raoul and the Persian are in the torture chamber. A huge thank you to all who read and especially to those who reviewed.
1. The Bridges are Burned

Chapter 1: The Bridges are Burned

Under terrible duress Christine made a choice.

"Erik! I have turned the scorpion!" she said. For a brief instant she believed that this decisive action-the first of her life-would save her lover, even if it finished herself. But at that moment, as she stood confident in her conclusion, the water noise began. Slowly at first, it could be heard to flow around her, the sound filling the room and growing louder until it obscured even the frantic calls of help that emanated from the torture room. It was obvious what was happening, and it occurred to her suddenly and painfully that Raoul and his mysterious companion would soon be drowned.

"Erik, do stop the water," she cried, "I've turned the scorpion. They can live now."

"Oh, but my dear, you've agreed to be my wife, and you do not need to have two men engaged to you?"

"I'll send Raoul away. I can give him back his ring. He'll never bother us again, but please, don't let him die. Please! I've promised to be your wife."

"Oh, but not my _living_ wife. You see, I am very generous! I give you a reason to dispatch with life before the living corpse can touch his cold bride."

"No, no, I'll give you whatever you want…" but there was no conviction in her voice. Hysteria was mounting and this time Christine couldn't control it. Terrible ideas crowded into her mind. If the water came from the scorpion, then it was her hand that brought it. How could she live if Raoul perished by her own action? And could she fulfill her promise and endure Erik's touch? She was totally ignorant of intimacy, and her mind filled with wild lewd images that repulsed and frightened her. Her pleading turned to frenzied nonsense and she trembled as she dropped to the ground in tears. But Erik was beyond pity, blinded by jealousy and disappointment, and he only bitterly mocked the loss that loomed above her. What could she do to save Raoul? What reason would Erik listen to? Overwhelmed with terror at the deadly outcome of her choice, afraid to make another decision, she could not rouse herself to any action. Reality was too much! She must turn away or a fit of madness would surely seize her, she must bury her face in her hands, she must block out everything. She couldn't look at the monster anymore. She couldn't think of her fiancée gasping his final breaths in the swirling waters. It had been too much and the cracks that had been developing in her innocent mind since her father's death splintered deeply. But Erik wouldn't be ignored. He stood over her, enraged by her retreat, and screaming like a madman.

"But you still cry for him!" he shouted, "He shouldn't matter to you now. But I will be your husband and you can't even look at me," he paused to laugh horribly. "But how could you? I'm only a monster, only a savage animal to be caged and humiliated and beaten, even in your eyes…" and the insane rage subsided as his voice became broken and miserable. "Even in your eyes, Christine. And yet you are the world to me. And I shall never be loved for my own sake." Erik too bent down; kneeling at her feet and gathering the skirts of her dress he buried his face in them, wiping his tears with their soft warmth and dreaming that it was not silk, but a soft body that comforted him.

Indecision is paralyzing and so too is unfulfilled longing. The pair remained frozen in the grip of their personal horrors for far too long. Perhaps the sound of the water no longer penetrated the fog in their minds. Perhaps it did and they simply could not or would not find the will to recognize it. But it was not until the water seeped out from the top of the door of death and pooled around Erik's feet that he moved.

For the first time in his life, he was dumbstruck. All of his life, he had been in control: of himself, of the actions of others, even sometimes it seemed that he controlled nature itself. But in this one moment of neglect, he had lost all power-Raoul-his tool of coercion-was lost, and his grip on life and death broken. For he knew that the men in the torture room must be dead, and there was nothing he could do to change it.

There was no going back now. He was all Christine had now; even if she wanted to run from him, there was nobody to run to. He was the only one left that could comfort her, nurture her, bring her soul forth from its withdrawing sadness. Even now, she lay helpless on the floor, unmoving in a dazed stupor. She needed him, she had nobody else to run to, and so she must not be allowed to run. But while the boy's death removed competition, it also destroyed any hope of attaining her submission and love. So she must be made to think he lived but went away. She must be made to think she fulfilled her promise and saved her friend. She must never know he was killed.

Erik came quickly to his conclusion, and with impossible speed he set to work. Within moments he placed a handkerchief over Christine's face, putting her to sleep with the Mazenderan scent. He pushed a button on the mantelpiece, stopping the water and sending it back into the lake. By now, though, the pool had reached Christine and it was clear that the most important thing was to move her before she became soaked and risked illness, before she became soaked and was left with the dampness to tell her, when she awoke, that the torture room had filled entirely. He collected her limp body, and couldn't help feeling delight as he carried her into her room and laid her on the bed as gently as a lover. The rigor that had marred her face had receded and she once more radiated the naïve beauty that he found so alluring. How could he not kiss her? She was a temptress too enchanting to be denied. And a kiss was such a little thing after all. He had seen her kiss the boy on many occasions. It would be a mere trifle to her and yet it would mean everything to him. Those lips, pink and moist, were even parted, as if waiting for his touch. His touch! How could he forget? It was his touch that drove her to hysteria, his touch that she would run the length of the world, even perhaps into death, to escape. And wasn't she was right in doing so? If he could, he too would run from his own sickening body. But, even after everything, couldn't she still be made to forget his ugliness? Wasn't there still hope?

Such useless thoughts! There was nothing now that would change Christine's fate or his own and there was no point dwelling on it. Important business was waiting, impatient to be dealt with. The water that had spilled from the torture room now seeped to every low point in the room. The antique silk carpet that covered the floor was soaked and clearly ruined. The image of a garden was woven in the fabric, a thing of pure beauty delicately crafted with love. It bothered Erik to look at it, as the colors bled into each other, and the rosy birds faded from existence, to think that this was another unfortunate victim of the boy's stubbornness, of that damned Persian's nosiness, and of Christine-poor Christine-who could never be honest and who didn't have the force of mind to see past his abhorrent face. Not yet. But water evaporates, and time mends wounds. Christine had no choice now but to accept him. There was still hope, as long as she remained with him and what would take her away now? There _had_ to be hope.

The torture room was drained and its victims lay on the floor, lifeless and staring when Erik opened the door. The boy was as he had imagined him in countless fantasies-lifeless and non-threatening-and it almost made him happy. But the Persian was next to him and his eyes bulged horribly. For once, Erik suffered from a trick of the mind-he imagined that his dead friend could speak. "You killed me!" those eyes seemed to say. "You are surely damned!" Wretched, he bent and closed the Persian's eyes, and began the arduous task of moving their bodies. The enormous stress of the day had taken its toll on him, and he found it difficult to drag the two water laden men to the gondola, one by one, and row them across the lake. The body of the Comte remained on the far bank of the lake, by the Rue-Scribe entrance, where Erik had left him not five hours before. How appropriate that the brothers should enter eternity side by side! There is only one thing worse in human fate than to die alone, as Erik knew only too well: to live alone! And the young Vicomte had nobly put an end to both tragedies. His brother now had a companion in death and Erik had one in life.

A companion! It was more than he ever dared hope for. Christine had agreed, in turning the scorpion, to be his wife. And now she lay, waiting for her husband to return, in the bed that would one day, with perseverance and luck, be theirs to share.


	2. The Twisting Descent

Chapter 2: The Twisting Descent

Christine awoke in the mahogany bed in Erik's house on the lake. The lamp on the dresser was burning dimly and in the soft light, the room seemed entirely ordinary, as it had on the many previous occasions that she had woken there, and it gave the strong impression that nothing in the world was amiss. Yet she felt odd: disoriented, dizzy, and stifled. She wore her dress still, she noticed. Why hadn't she changed before bed? Something was terribly wrong, but she couldn't recall what it might be. Her head was in a fog and she could only remember the singing. It was Erik's voice-the angel's voice-singing a lullaby in tones of gentle love, tones entirely different from the oppressive affections that he normally expressed, and it calmed and eased her mind. It seemed very real, though it had only been a dream, and for a while Christine wondered if he hadn't actually sung her to sleep the previous night, perhaps after a tiring lesson, and that was why she slept clothed. What was the lesson then? She had been practicing for _Faust_. No, she had performed it last night! And afterwards…the abduction, the descent, and the mirrored room. Dear God, she had promised to marry Erik!

Horror and panic gripped her as she remembered suddenly. What had become of Raoul? She climbed out of bed, nearly swooning, and stumbled into the next room. It was empty and the house quiet. The door of death lay across the room. It was closed and the little window at the top, that had glowed so fiercely the night before, was dark. Climbing the stairs, Christine looked through the glass, but could see nothing-all was blackness inside. She tapped gently on the door, and called softly. There was no response. Of course, she thought, Erik was not likely to leave her lover in the next room. But where were they?

Climbing back down, she moved to the sofa, and sat, unsure of what she should do. The drawing room, like her bedroom, looked no different from before…except the carpet was missing she realized. How perplexing! What had become of it? She looked again at the door of the torture room as if it might provide a clue and it was only then that she remembered the water. Raoul wasn't in the little room now, which meant the door must have been opened at some point. Perhaps the carpet had been flooded, soaked to the point of ruin.

But if Raoul wasn't in the torture room, he must either have escaped or been released-if he was still alive-though escape from the monster seemed entirely unlikely. Did Erik succumb to her pleading, then, and save her friend? She couldn't recall-she remembered only the sound or rushing water, the cries of help from Raoul and his companion, and the wild ranting of Erik, who had gone quite mad with love and jealousy. Could he have let Raoul die? Another man had died, had been drowned in the lake, last night. Erik had sung his Requiem. But he had seemed remarkably upset about it; he didn't appear to enjoy death after all. And he had no reason to kill Raoul now that she had agreed to become his wife. But Erik had been insane with rage and she had known that that night he was capable of any sin. A deep cold filled her heart as she considered the possibility that Raoul was dead, and it spread throughout her body like a paralyzing frost. What was she to do now? For either by death or by force, Erik had clearly removed Raoul from her life forever, and put himself in the Vicomte's place. Could she be a wife to him-the monster who had taken her lover from her? Could she possibly bear to touch him, his horrific rotted flesh and murderous hands, and kiss him, even in the dark?

No! It would be worse than death! He filled her only with terror now! His very presence was oppressive and ghastly, as if she were buried alive in this dark subterranean tomb, unable to scream, unable to run. She must escape from him! She could never bear to look on him again. And maybe if she ever saw the light of day again, she would find Raoul waiting for her, and he would spirit her away from the bewildering and perpetual night.

But where was Erik? The house was silent-perhaps he had gone out. Quietly, she crept to the front door. She had seen him come and go through it many times, but he had never showed her how to open it, and she had never discovered it on her own. But there! A panel had been slid back like a little window to expose a button. Could it be the switch she was looking for? It was unlike Erik to be so careless about security. Why would he leave it open? But then she remembered the carpet-he must have taken it from the house, and perhaps in the awkward shuffle it had not been convenient to conceal the secret panel behind him. Or could it be a trick? The grasshopper would have killed them all, Erik had said. Perhaps this button was also rigged to bring forth some catastrophe. But Christine was desperate now, and death was not entirely unwelcome. She pushed the button. The door opened.

The space between the house and the lake was only a few yards wide and Christine stepped out, listening for a moment; but the only sound was the echo of the dark waters lapping in the vast underground cavern. She had never really spent time out here before-Erik had always ferried her quickly into and out of the house-and she did not know how far the ledge ran on either side of the building. Gathering her skirts so that she might not slip and fall into the siren's waters, she decided quickly to follow the shelf to the left and made to depart. But suddenly, out of the darkness, he stepped in her way, not two feet from her.

Erik had caught her! Terrified of his almost certain rage, Christine screamed and ran in the only direction open to her-back into the house. Throwing herself on the sofa, she buried her face in the pillows, and cried, willing herself away from his grasp and believing, childlike in her desperation, that as long as she couldn't see him, she was safe. But there was his voice in her head once more, though it didn't sound angry at all, as she had expected.

"Don't cry Christine," the voice said. "You know I would never hurt you. Your boy is safe now; I've only just returned him to the light of day. I'm sorry for it to turn out like this," it said, and it was drawing near! "But you promised to be my wife so you must give up your other lover. Don't you see that it is the only way?" And something touched the hem of her gown. In her mind she saw his cold corpse hand clutching at her dress and she pulled away quickly, fleeing into her room.

But the voice followed, and it was no longer the voice alone, but the monster, standing in her doorway! And he reached out for her, with hope in his eyes; hope to touch her, to lay his murderous hands on her! But she was utterly transfixed by fear, powerless to move away now that his burning eyes were upon her, drawing ever closer. She could not move still when he caught her wrist in his freezing grasp and lifted it, as his other hand reached into his pocket to retrieve something. But when it was withdrawn and she saw what he held, life returned to her. She struggled like a wild beast to free her wrist, to prevent the gold ring that he had somehow found from returning to her finger. But his grip was like a vise, and he held her fast. She beat at him, stepped on his feet, swore oaths of pure hatred, but still he held her, until the ring was on her finger once more.

"You are my wife," he said, "There is no leaving Erik now!" And he let her go so suddenly that she fell to the ground.

_There is no leaving, no leaving for the monster's wife!_ The words beat in her ears over and over. There was no stopping them, no drowning them out, even when her cries turned to screams, even when she pulled at her hair. She was over the edge, out of control, and she sat crying until the hands touched her once more and the voice broke through the fury in her mind.

"Drink this," it said. "It will help." A glass of wine was placed in her shaking hand, and guided to her mouth. _There is no leaving_, continued the echo of the voice in her head, and, resigned and broken, she feebly allowed him to feed her the liquid, only dimly aware that it tasted strange, not like wine at all. But then, slowly, the dissonance receded. Her mind was being filled with a soft warm fog, her body was relaxing. The world was slipping away in a rosy haze and even when the monster knelt beside her, and held her to keep her from slipping to the floor, it did not seem quite so terrible. Even when his face bent over hers and those searching eyes examined her, she managed to remember long ago, when her angel had spoken to her and she was at peace.


	3. Deception and Delirium

A/N: Thank you to all who've read and especially those who've reviewed! As all fan-fic writers can appreciate, it's the reviewer that inspires and motivates us to continue and always strive for excellence. Reading your comments is the delight of my day!

Chapter 3: Deception and Delirium

The hatred! The hatred he had seen in her eyes burned Erik like fire, and he writhed in agony in the darkness. His mask was off, and he clutched at his tufts of hair as he moaned and gasped, trying to keep quiet so as not to disturb her peace. For one moment, the veil had been pulled back and he saw for the first time what Christine truly thought of him: no adoration, no secret longing, even for his voice-only hatred and fear. And although the moment had passed, he could not force the image of her utter loathing from his mind. He would never forget it! Would never be able to keep it from his tired imagination; every night when he tried to sleep, he knew that, no matter what happened now, this image would always be at the edge of his mind, waiting for him to relax so that it could assault him once more.

But the moment had passed. Christine had been hysterical and he had fed her laudanum to calm her. The soft veil had dropped upon her once more, covering the repulsion and exposing her devotion. Did she truly hate him? Perhaps it had only been a madness that had seized her. Even now, she lay awake in her room, dreaming in the opiate haze, calmly and perhaps happily. When he lifted her in his arms, she did not scream or beat at him, and when he placed her on the bed, she smiled! Oh, it was only a little smile, and she did not look at him as she did so, but it had significance that he wouldn't ignore. Christine was not horrified to be in her room, so she must not be horrified to be in his house with him. But could he be sure? Wasn't it just as likely that the hatred was real and her tranquility now was only a result of the laudanum? He must find out.

Straightening himself, Erik stood and wiped his face on his sleeve. Wretched still, but determined once more, he retrieved and replaced his mask, and crept to Christine's door. He entered slowly to not startle her and stood on the threshold for several moments before she noticed him. Her eyes were glazed and sparkled in the light and he couldn't help but think once more how beautiful she was. The half smile that she had worn when he moved her was gone now, and she seemed troubled, though not horrified as he had feared. Moving to the bed, he sat down timidly, and took her hand. She did not resist.

"Christine?" he said. "Does something bother you, my darling?" She turned to him in confusion and opened and closed her mouth impotently many times before she could find the words.

"Dark," she said, and looked at him pleadingly. "It's dark."

The worry in her voice disturbed Erik. Why upset her further tonight? Deception had served them well in the past-after all, without it he never could have spoken with her. "But my dear," he said, "can't you see the sun?" He pointed to the lamp that shone dimly across the room. "Can't you feel its warmth?" And he covered her lap with the blanket.

"The sun?" she asked weakly, looking skeptically at the lamp.

"Yes, of course. Don't you know it shines day and night down here? We are never in the dark."

"The sun," she said again, and her face relaxed. "It is warm."

Erik looked at the small hand that rested in his own. She didn't seem to feel any hatred for him now. Would it return when the effects of the laudanum wore off? He bitterly anticipated the hours it would take before he could find out. Would her face contort in disgust again soon? He examined her closely, taking in her peaceful beauty while he could and for the first time consciously noticed the effects of the recent trauma. The bruises on her forehead, from where she had struck her head the previous night, had developed fully and stood out dark against her pale skin. Black circles ringed her eyes and her hair was in disarray. Was it really such a surprise that she had reacted so harshly yesterday, when she was obviously exhausted and wounded? He looked at the watch Christine kept at the side of her bed: it was four o'clock in the morning. She had taken no real rest in over two days. Sleep fixes many problems, and perhaps after a long slumber she would feel better and not look on him in terror even when lucid.

"You should sleep now, Christine; you're very tired," he said, and he helped her lie down and covered her with the blanket.

He returned to his own room and lay down, trying desperately to suppress his uneasiness. His body ached terribly and he thought of how he too had not slept in days-and what difficult days they had been! The frantic rush to move the bodies and the water-logged carpet before Christine awoke had been a terrible ordeal and he found that he was more exhausted than he had realized. He turned his mind to music, the only thing that could calm him, and slowly drifted away into fantasy. He must have eventually fallen asleep, because he was woken suddenly by the sound of screaming.

Within seconds, he was back in Christine's room and at her bedside, grabbing her shoulders in a fit of concern. But this time when he touched her, she became rigid and looked away, and though she stopped screaming, her immediate stony silence was somehow more disturbing. This sudden coldness wasn't the result of terror or hysteria, but was calculated and deliberate. She was lucid, and understood everything. But even though her mind was now rested, she did not, as he had hoped, want to be with him.

"Christine," he said, panic and desperation building. "Look at me please."

But she did not. She sat silent and stiff and although she permitted him to touch her arms, he could tell that she withdrew from the contact entirely in her heart.

"Please don't," he cried, "You made a promise! I'm not such a monster, really, when I only hold you to your promises. Are you afraid? You know you have nothing to fear from me. I would never lay a finger on you without permission," he realized that he was still clutching her arms, and released them immediately. "Only please, Christine, just look at me. Talk to me again. We can be happy, singing as we once did."

Christine slowly turned her head, and did look at him. There was no hatred in her eyes, but vacancy and he understood that although she didn't run from him in body, she was beyond his reach in mind. It was terrible, that expressionless face, and Erik thought that almost anything would be better-even the delirium of the laudanum haze.

In two days, Christine's old life was lost, and a new life forced upon her. Such a monumental change would take weeks, months even, to adjust to. Would it really be so terrible to help her through this difficult time? Reality always had been a difficult burden for her. Would pushing it away for a while be such a violation? No! He was the only man in her life now, and so it fell to him to console her, take care of her, and carry her through hardship.

Once more, he prepared the solution in a glass of wine and brought it to Christine. She looked at it with distrust, but she was a fly in a spider's web. While Erik hung over her, there was no escape from the horror of his presence and the eternal darkness. She could face her fate with eyes wide open, or soften the blow with his incapacitating drink. The choice was simple, and she took the offered glass and drank the contents with grim determination. As the world slipped away once more, she only hoped that should he touch her again, she wouldn't feel it, and wouldn't smell his terrible death on his hands.

But he didn't touch her at all. Erik retreated from the room, unable to suppress disgust at what he had done, and not wanting to see the change come over her. Why must humans live this way, he wondered. Always longing for what is out of reach, denied by hesitation and fear? But when happiness is offered to them, they turn their backs on it, choosing what is impossible instead. Was he so different? He certainly pursued a fool's hope. But there was no happiness for him in the world outside of that dream, no happiness to throw away.

What did it matter? He was not a part of the miserable human race, and now that Christine was with him, she too was outside of society. They would accept the joy of their union and live in ecstasy. He had to believe it was possible-there was no other way for him to live. One day Christine would look on him lucidly, maybe not with love, but with tolerance and happiness. There was still time.


	4. Stolen Indulgence

Chapter 4: Stolen Indulgence

Days passed, and Christine became increasingly listless. She rarely spoke, except in a laudanum haze, and then her thoughts were disjointed and fantastic. The rigor that had seized her during the first few days had passed, and now, when she returned to the real world, she waited patiently and quietly for Erik to administer the drug once more. Life no longer held any hope for her and the magic of slipping away was the only source of pleasure left. In dreams she could find the happiness that had been taken from her in life, and she spent timeless days lingering in the sun with her father and Raoul.

Sometimes she smiled. Sometimes she even laughed to herself. And Erik stood by and watched and listened, and he smiled when she smiled; for in his mind, it was a sign that she was not altogether unhappy in his house. The hysteria had passed and she did not shudder when he gave her the nightly draught, not even when he brushed her hand with his own. Time was slipping past, and much had changed since that fateful night. He had a wife! And she was learning to tolerate him. It was a very slow progression to be sure, but it was happening and perhaps one day he could wean her off the medicine and they could put all regret, all shame, all betrayal behind them.

Perhaps one day, but not yet. In the corner of his mind Erik knew there was another reason to keep Christine insensate, though he was reluctant to admit it. In her dreams, she often looked on him with shining eyes that spoke of love. She would reach out to him, and sometimes he would go to her and touch her arm or hand without fear. He knew in these moments that she imagined someone else's face watching her and hands touching her, but these stolen affections were too distressingly gratifying to part with. Her skin, so warm and soft, became unbearably tempting in her submission, and he would not give it up, could not, when he had been denied so much in life. It was a theft, of course, and on the grandest scale, but is it so wrong to take what is denied by cruelty and injustice? If a beggar steals his bread to live, should he be condemned?

And so Erik led Christine into dependence and encouraged her lucid dreams, allowing her to believe he was another while he stroked her warm flesh and brought forth sighs of elation from her perfect throat. It was a dark path they now tread, to be sure, but Erik would not consider that it was destructive as well. Not when Christine began to show physical signs of addiction, trembling violently if he were even a few hours late with her treatment, and not when her affections grew more forward, so that he not only touched her arms but sometimes her face and neck as well. And so they descended the viscous spiral of dependence together.

And time passed to the constant attrition of their lives until the eve of their third month together. Erik had been out to purchase some gifts for his wife, a few toiletries and some pretty night clothes. But the streets had been crowded, although it was evening, and these small errands took him far longer than he had anticipated. When he arrived home, and unlocked the door to Christine's room, he found her collapsed in her bathroom, shivering and sweating. It was obvious that she had been sick, perhaps many times, and he cursed his negligence as he carried her back to bed. These were withdrawal symptoms and Erik found them deeply distressing. He quickly prepared the draught, increasing the dosage in the hope that it would help her sickness pass more quickly. Christine's hands shook so violently that he had to hold the glass for her as she drank and awkwardly spilled some of the liquid on her nightgown. But she managed to swallow most of it and within ten minutes, the shaking had completely subsided. Her body relaxed once more, though the look of distress lingered on her face.

After he was certain that she was no longer in danger, he left her room for some time to prepare the gifts he had purchased for their anniversary. When he returned, he found that she had been crying, for her eyes were red and her cheeks wet with tears. But the moment she noticed him, her face changed entirely. A great smile broke out suddenly and her eyes shone with a look that was utterly incomprehensible to Erik. Her breath trembled with excitement as she sighed, and she held out her arms to him invitingly.

"You're back," she whispered and her voice was full of desire. He had never seen her like this before-so comfortable in her yearning-and it struck him as exceedingly feminine. Throughout their relationship he had only ever seen her as a girl, a sort of adult child. But now, for the first time, he saw her as a woman, and he realized suddenly that all his fantasies had been nothing compared to the magical possibilities that existed in reality. He desired this new vision, and all it had to offer, more than he could ever have anticipated and it overwhelmed him with a fierceness that was maddening. He had to hold her! No matter who she thought he was he had to accept that embrace.

Erik moved to her bedside with trepidation, nervous, like a small boy, in his excitement of the potential offered in her welcoming arms. And as he sat, she moved her body against him and held him, pressing her golden head against his chest and grasping his back with passionate urgency. But then she lifted her head, and laid it on his shoulder, and he could feel her breath on his neck, and her trembling lips brushing his skin, and the black desire set upon him so viciously that his vision grew dark and his head swam. He clutched at her hair, holding the flowing locks tight so that he could not move his hands to more tempting places. His control was balanced upon a knife's edge and he felt the void of utter ruin beneath his feet. It was only a matter of time before he fell and poor Christine would be pulled down with him. But still he struggled to restrain himself, and he panted wildly from the effort.

Perhaps Christine believed he was in the throes of the same passion she was, for after a time, she lifted her head, looked him in the eyes and spoke:

"Kiss me," she said.

The terrible gasping stopped, the shaking stopped, and Erik was suddenly paralyzed, unable to breathe.

"Kiss me," she said again, and her eyes half closed as she lifted her face to him.

Every thing of beauty that he had ever possessed had been stolen. It was impossible now to turn away from that life of theft, to not claim the object of his most urgent craving when it was mistakenly offered. He took off his mask and waited a few moments, to give her one last chance to understand her actions. But she didn't turn away and so he leaned in slowly, nervously and with a thrill of anticipation, and kissed her moist parted lips. And as he pulled her to him, he felt her hot breath in his mouth, and her hands in his hair, and he realized too late that it was overwhelmingly erotic and enticing. He was caught in a landslide and in a last moment of desperation, he threw himself from her and backed across the room, tripping and stumbling.

But as he watched her he understood finally the strange look that had been in her eyes since he first entered the room. It was more than longing-it was real human joy. And it shocked him that this look was more desirable to him than even those coral lips. But why should it shock him. Didn't he want love above all? More than a body to hold and explore. But that body was tempting too, so tempting in its misguided submission. He told himself that her mind wouldn't know, wouldn't remember the kiss, wouldn't remember the next kiss and hate him in the morning. As long as he didn't truly violate her, as long as he left no marks, no trace or evidence, she would never be sure that it wasn't a dream. Was she even dreaming at all? Maybe it was him that she wanted. She had looked into his eyes-she must have known it was him kissing her! And so he believed what he needed to, and he went to her once more. This time he didn't pull away or stop, but kissed her until the pressure of her small breasts against his chest nearly drove him mad. And he touched her, falling ever further into the abyss of desire, now halting, now justifying his exploration, always pushing the world away, even when she whispered in his ear, "I thought you were dead"; always counting the minutes until the delirium would end.


	5. From Dreams to Reality

A/N: Thanks again to all readers and reviewers! I'm thrilled that everyone seems to be liking my little story so far. I hope not to disappoint as it continues.

One very important aspect of reviews is, of course, the constructive criticism it affords. My main goal, apart from trying to give you something good to read, is to improve my writing. That said, I'd be delighted to receive any and all comments, criticisms, likes and dislikes about any aspect of the writing itself. Anybody who has any input on such technical details can feel free to say something in a review or email me (at the address listed in my fanfic profile). Thanks again for reading!

Also, sorry to confuse, but I'm changing this back to a PG-13 rating. I was a little worried that I'd be reported and kicked off of fanfic for the drugs and burgeoning sexual suggestiveness, but apparently a story is all but invisible with an R rating.

Chapter 5: From Dreams to Reality

Morning broke, though the world was dark as always when Christine awoke. Her head felt heavy and her body tingled, and she dimly remembered how ill she had been last night and how unusually quickly Erik's medicine had taken effect. Something had been different about that draught-it must have been much stronger than normal-but for good or bad, Christine was undisturbed by his decision. Since the night of the scorpion, that last fateful night that she saw the moon and stars, Erik had filled her with nothing but revulsion. But despite these feelings, she found that she was beginning to trust his judgment and took whatever he gave her without hesitation. In her eyes, his motivations had always been extremely questionable, immoral even. But his reasoning now dictated the path of her life. She had no choice, really, but to put faith in his judgment; there was nobody left to turn to. And so if Erik had thought that a heavy dose of laudanum was necessary, she would accept his decision without question.

There had been something else, though, last night, that lingered in her memory. At first she had thought it a dream and nothing more, but as the drowsiness left her and her normal facilities returned, she began to realize that it had been real.

Erik had gone out, and stayed away for far too long. Normally he would appear in her room around five o'clock in the evening with a supper tray and perhaps something to entertain her-a new book, or a ribbon for her hair. Exactly one hour later, he would reappear with her wine mixture and wait patiently for her to drink the contents entirely before clearing away her dishes and tidying the room. Last night, however, five o'clock came and went, then six, and still Erik had not appeared. By eight, Christine began to feel sick and several hours later she had become so ill that she could no longer see the clock or listen for the footsteps that would bring her relief. When he did finally arrive, she wondered if he wasn't a figment of her overexcited mind and was startled when he touched her.

The draught finally came, and she was so agitated that he had to administer it. As his hands moved near her mouth, she smelled the death upon them, yet for the first time she tolerated it. That ghastly stench that had always disgusted her signified the arrival of the bitter wine and it was less acute by far than her need for relief. But though her physical sickness passed, relief did not come. The world dropped away, and she entered a fog of fleeting images and lucid dreams, but tonight they were threatening and tangled.

She struggled through these apparitions for time out of mind until she witnessed the most vivid and remarkable vision: there in her doorway, in this very house on the lake, stood Raoul, his blond hair shining like cut hay in the summer sun and his pale face radiant with love and desire. Desire! She felt it too. And in this place removed from all human eyes, and in this dilapidated addicted state, she embraced that desire without shame or compunction. She spoke and he came to her, and although he had held her in her dreams countless times before somehow that night it felt as if it were really happening. The arms of a human man were around her and the desperate beating of a heart was in her ear. It seemed so real, and she delighted in these physical sensations after being so long cut off from life. The beautiful smooth features of her lover held her serenely but she longed to see them fill with passion. Wouldn't a kiss draw out his fervor? So she asked knowing he could not refuse her and he looked at her, his countenance placid though his eyes burned, and touched his face. But when he drew back his hand, it was no longer Raoul, but something indistinct and confusing, though the same heart still beat beneath her hand. And time passed but the vision lingered, then disappeared behind closing eyes and was replaced by a hot mouth full of new sensations and life! There was reality rising up to claim her, and it was magnificent, better than any dream could be, and she embraced it with utter joy.

The strange face pulled away suddenly, but the pulse in her skin remained where he had touched her. And she knew the same fire overcame him, for he returned and kissed her with passion and his hands wandered impatiently as she surrendered to the fervid sensations.

She hadn't asked who this man was. In her mind, he had been Raoul, come back from the world above to claim her once more. But now, as she remembered with a clear head, she knew that the man had been real, though it wasn't Raoul. There was only one person who it could have been. Surely it was Erik, and as she thought of it, another memory began to surface: a memory of the smell of death, filling her nose, lingering in her mouth. The monster had touched her! Kissed her! And at her request. Christine shuddered to think of it, and shame and disgust washed over her. His monstrous lips on hers, his decayed flesh grabbing and pinching, his yellow nails digging into her shoulders and hips. The horrific beast had almost consumed her, and she hated him more as she remembered that she had wanted him to touch her, that in her secret heart she wanted even now to feel that simple contact again.

What a terrible thing: to be torn between desire and repulsion! How contradictory and implacable. Could she ever lower herself to claim the only joy offered to her in this macabre existence? Could she ever stomach the sight of him again?

Three short knocks sounded on her bedroom door and before she could prepare herself in any way, it opened and the monster entered. Christine sat up, but gathered the blankets around her and pulled them up over her chest. He carried her lunch tray and set it down on the dressing table as if nothing were out of the ordinary, though he did not look at her as he passed. There was something else in his hands, she noticed, and he paused, looking at it, for a few moments, before approaching her. It was a small parcel, wrapped in bright paper, and as he set it next to her on the bed, his closeness and the terrible smell that it brought filled her with such disgust that she rushed from the room, overwhelmed with nausea, and became sick, frustrated and crying in the little bathroom. She heard his cry of dismay, but did not care. He deserved to see her in this state that he had caused-she wanted to punish him, to make him to suffer as she did now. When he timidly touched her back, she screamed, sobbing:

"Don't touch me, monster!" And she turned to see through bleary eyes, the effect of her words. Fear and panic radiated from him, and she could tell, despite the mask, that his hideous face was contorted and stricken. He stood dumb, unsure of what to do, like a dog that had been beaten by its master. But even his proximity was hateful, and she shouted "Get out, get out, get out," continuing even after he had left.

But then the tears stopped and she stood and moved. The parcel that he had brought was on her bed and she opened it. A card read "_For my darling bride, who has filled my lonely life with music, on our three month anniversary_." The box contained a glass figurine of a songbird, but vengeful and bitter, she threw it in the fire grate, where it shattered.

For hours she walked, pacing her room and thinking. She remembered the prim teachings of her moral upbringing and felt shame. She remembered all that Erik had stolen from her, and she felt hatred. She remembered the horror and shock that overcame her the first time she saw his face, and felt betrayed. But the memory of human contact and intimacy, and the happiness it produced, would not be pushed aside. And in this miserable tomb, where morals were of no use, and nothing was simple and beautiful, her shame and disgust could not overcome her desire.

Hours later, when she was once more in the opiate grip, the unpleasant feelings faded and the confusion disappeared. In this incapacitated state, she felt no responsibility for her actions and could accept her disturbing cravings without guilt or shame. When Erik appeared in her doorway after the medicine had taken affect, shoulders hunched and red eyed, she willfully forgot what was terrible and remembered only what was pleasurable. He took her outstretched hand; it did not feel cold, nor did it reek of death and his corpse's skin glowed golden, like parchment in candlelight. And as he held her and pressed his face into her hair and sobbed, the delightful reality of the contact overwhelmed her once more, and she forgot the monster that she surrendered to.


	6. Days Awakening

Chapter 6: Days Awakening

Erik was careful to leave Christine before she woke. It was still hours before dawn, and he imagined the streets above, cool and dark without a person in sight. He longed to go up to the surface, to walk those streets and feel the fresh air-to celebrate life and see something beautiful and natural after their remarkable night. But he didn't dare leave his beloved alone, even as she slept. He wondered if he would ever dare to leave her alone again.

Returning to his room, he turned to his imagination. Thoughts began to take shape of a grand house, with a garden and high walls in the quiet outskirts of the city. There was a willow tree on the edge of a pond, it's spidery branches disappearing beneath the surface. And on the water's face he saw the moon, full and white, as it cast its supernatural glow upon him. Perhaps there was a dog, something small and pretty to make Christine smile, playing on the veranda. It made him smile too, for it was never far from her side and when it bounded into sight, she would be close behind. And there! In the doorway, emerging from the light, she appeared. Resplendent in a silver dress, her skin shone opalescent. And in her eyes was the look he longed for most-the look he had finally seen last night. But now, there was no cloud over her mind, and the love and desire came from her heart.

Oh, he longed for that image, that life with her. Could he achieve it? He probably had enough capital, between the money he had taken from the managers and the wealth he accumulated abroad. And if he fell short-well, there is always money to be had for the resourceful. The land could be purchased, and he could draw the architectural plans himself. Builders were forever desperate for work, and a crew could be assembled that wouldn't ask too many questions. And if the walls were high enough, there would be no eyes to be curious or frightened. No eyes but hers. And hers would not be disturbed, not when they lived such a life.

Erik moved to his desk, and began to sketch the house. It was remarkably easy, almost as if it already existed and he was simply copying it onto paper. Every detail he pictured perfectly in his mind: the long glass-roofed gallery on the second floor, the elaborate curving iron work on the front door. He could even see the expression on the faces of the fat cherubs decorating the frieze. It was a great joy to put it on paper, and as he became increasingly absorbed in the drawing, he hummed joyfully, always building on the fantasy life in his head.

Some hours later, still at work, he was disturbed by a knock at the door. What could be wrong? Was Christine hurt? Panicking, he jumped quickly, tipping his chair over backwards and upsetting a bottle of ink onto his house, and rushed to the door, throwing it open. Christine was there, but she was not hurt or even upset, but stood smiling calmly and patiently.

"Erik, I have a song in my head," she said, placidly. "It is making me quite mad. Could you play it for me please?"

Whatever he had expected her response to be this morning after, it wasn't this. For the first time since the night her lover had died, she had dressed and fixed her hair, and stood speaking as if they were once more in the time before the incident with the scorpion.

Hesitating in his confusion, he answered, though his voice was laced with suspicion. "Yes, of course, my dear." And he held out a hand to lead her into his room where the great organ dominated the wall. "What is it that you think of?"

The piece was a trifle, some hackneyed ballad that had been popular last season. But as he played, Christine leaned against the instrument and smiled, swaying like a little girl to the simple music. The woman he had seen in her last night was gone, but so was the desperate madness. It was if nothing had changed from those first blissful days. But as natural as she appeared in the moment, the contrast between this lightheartedness and her former miserable stupor was too much for Erik to ignore, and it worried him deeply. What could make her change so suddenly? Surely it wasn't the events of the previous night. If she had any idea what had happened, he thought, she would certainly throw herself straight into the lake. But if not that, what could it be? Nothing else had changed for weeks.

And was her smile genuine, he wondered, or was she simply acting the part, trying to convince him or herself, perhaps, that things were fine? He could not fathom this behavior at all, though it filled him with an unusually strong sense of foreboding.

But what could he do? Whatever she was thinking, Christine seemed happy enough at present, and he certainly wouldn't oppose it. Even if she didn't truly feel content, he though that at least this activity was healthy, a start in the right direction. Perhaps she would continue to improve, and one day she would become the same girl that he fell in love with again. The same girl in the day, but the woman at night.

So he encouraged her jocular mood, and when he finished the piece she had requested, he began a second. Wanting to be light and humorous, and wishing to avoid anything that could remind Christine of their relationship or the past, he chose the first duet from "Orpheus in the Underworld". Poor Orpheus, so misunderstood by his wife, who can no longer tolerate his bombastic music! It seemed positively ridiculous when his music was the only thing Christine had ever actually enjoyed with him. Erik sang with deliberate melodrama, and Christine laughed quite delightedly when, with affected softness and verve, he sang Eurydice's part as well. The second song soon ended, and he continued through a few more selections, always trying to preserve some sense of absurdity, but eventually his playing began to seem forced, and he quit the organ.

A rather uncomfortable silence descended, but after a few awkward moments, Erik grabbed desperately at the first thing he could think of.

"Why don't you choose a book to read, Christine? I'm sure I have some pleasant stories in my collection that you might care for." He gestured to the door, and they went together into the drawing room. Christine was happy to oblige his suggestion, and spent some time perusing the selection, asking him what some were about, or if ones she had heard of were worth the time. It was a pleasant conversation, and after she finally selected one, she settled down in the armchair to read. She didn't go to her room and shut herself away! Maybe she wanted to be with him, in the same space, like a normal couple. Erik chose a book for himself but he did not read. His mind was filled again with happiness and the house of his imagination. The interior would be magnificent, a world on it's own so they would never need to leave. And upstairs, there would be no coffin, no _dies irae_ on the wall hangings, no torture chambers, but one bedroom and one grand bed.

The day wore on as he fantasized, and eventually his thoughts were disrupted as Christine set down the book and stood.

"I'm rather hungry, Erik. Could we eat soon?"

"Of course, darling. Would you like to lie down while I prepare it? It's been a rather active day for you."

"No," she smiled, "I'm tired of resting. I'd rather help. If you don't mind."

Help, like a real wife, he thought, and he imagined brushing her hand as he passed her something, or catching the scent of her perfume as she moved close to him. And so together they left the drawing room and, talking and laughing like any ordinary couple, they made their supper. But as they sat down to eat, the fantasy dissolved.

"Don't forget my _wine_," she said pointedly. It seemed utterly unnatural after such a lovely day to hear her request for sedation. But Erik left the table nevertheless and prepared her draught as usual, though he cut the dose slightly, and silently returned to place it by her plate. She didn't seem to think anything of it, and cheerfully finished her meal before drinking it.

"Well, thank you for the songs," she said as she stood. "They were quite amusing," she laughed, and she covered her mouth as she yawned. "But I'm tired all of a sudden. I think I might lie down after all." She crossed the room, leaving him alone at the table, but before she went into her room, she turned and fidgeted nervously for a moment before saying, "I hope you have a good night, Erik." And then she was gone.

What did it mean? Was it a subtle invitation or a rejection? He cleared the table, brooding on what he should do, wondering if there was any hope for the future. But an hour later, when he entered her room to make sure all was well, she was not asleep as he had expected, but sitting up in bed. She watched him with glazed eyes, and a relaxed posture, once more the woman he so longed for, and when she spoke her voice was low and husky.

"I was waiting," she said with a pout. With utter relief, he ran to her side and kissed her passionately, renewing the exploration of the night before.


	7. Fractured Foundations

Chapter 7: Fractured Foundations

The plans for the house lay open on Erik's desk, finished at last. He bent over them, scanning them carefully one last time, before he folded them and placed them in an envelope, ready to present to a contractor. Which contractor, he did not yet know. He hadn't dared to leave Christine alone, and yet the time was upon him when he would need to. His vision of the house, and the perfect life it would shelter, had continued to grow in his mind, and Erik could not restrain his impatience to see it realized. He must have the house built soon, within the year. And when they shared the same room like a normal couple, perhaps then she could truly become his wife.

Erik had not yet spoken of his plans to Christine. He had wanted to wait until the drafts were complete, partly to surprise her and partly to give her room to continue mending without needless consideration of the future. But since he had begun the drawings nearly two weeks ago, her condition had steadily improved, and now not only did she dress every day and converse cheerfully as she did before, but he had successfully cut her dosage to almost half of what it had originally been. And so later that evening, after he had prepared a special dinner, he would reveal the drawings and present Christine with their new life.

At first, when he had conceived of the idea, he was worried about how she might receive such a proposal. Would she reject it, as she rejected intimate touch while awake? Or would her secret happiness finally surface and bring her excitement at the prospect of a new beginning? But as time passed, and their daily conversations grew more comfortable, and their nightly interactions more passionate, his anxiety slowly dimmed until he was quite certain that, on some level, Christine understood that she was surrendering to him, Erik, and not some phantom from the past. And if she chose to willingly submit to him, then surely she would be disposed to move back into the light, and sleep beside him like a real wife.

Erik could only hope, and continue as planned. The clock on the mantelpiece showed five o'clock. It was past time to begin preparations for dinner. Putting away the envelope with the plans, and rolling up the sketches he had kept aside for Christine, Erik began to assemble the best of their dwindling provisions. In the next room, Christine napped peacefully, and he worked quietly so as not to disturb her. There was little left in his pantry, he had difficulty assembling a meal. Even barring the need to see a contractor, Erik would have to go above ground within the week or they would soon starve. Setting the table, he stopped to consider when would be a good time, and sighed in reluctance at needing to go at all. Despite his excitement over the future, the present was more joyful than he had ever dreamed possible, and he was hesitant to do anything that might jeopardize that happiness.

But what use was such skepticism when he had the present? His lovely bride would join him soon and he would be able to watch her across the table, and see her smile and laugh with her. Nothing else mattered. Finishing quickly, he moved to her door, and nervously adjusted his collar before knocking.

"I'll just be a few moments, Erik," she called through the door. Her voice sounded pleasant tonight, and Erik took relief. Apparently she had not yet changed her mind about him and her circumstances. He moved to a chair to wait, and as he sat, he imagined what she was doing in her room. Perhaps she was sitting at her dressing table, still in her little corset, her white shoulders bare. Perhaps she arranged her hair, but one soft curl fell still down the gentle curve of her back. And he stepped forward to retrieve the unruly lock and touched her skin. She looked up at him in the mirror, though he could not see himself, and she smiled, inviting the contact, asking for his help. But then she stood, and turned to face him, her head tilted back to look him in the eyes, and she whispered, _I love you Erik_. And taking his arms, she placed them around her waist and lifted her face to his.

"I'm ready now Erik," said Christine, and he started, so absorbed was he in the reverie. "Do I look that dreadful?" she asked, laughing. She was wearing a black dress, cut low and with wide shoulders and high sleeves, so that all but the smallest strip of her arms showed. It had been one of the first dresses that he had bought for her, and it hung in her wardrobe long before she first set foot in his house. But until now she had never worn it. It was terribly provocative-he thought she looked like womanly sensuality personified.

"My God, Christine, you are beautiful," he said shakily, and suddenly he felt like an awkward youth in the presence of Aphrodite. How could the life he wanted ever be good enough for this magical creature? How could he even justify touching her? But he did not need to, for she stepped forward, seeing his hesitation, and took his hand.

"Come, let us eat," she said, leading him to the table. Christine was in a cheerful mood, and chatted happily about the things on her mind, and Erik wondered if she was aware of his sudden nervousness, and was trying to help him along. But he could not help it, he couldn't forget-she was a goddess, and deserved better than the house he would soon reveal. And he was certain that if he lost her now, death would be the only relief possible.

Death! For him it would be liberation. If she rejected him now, he wouldn't wait for time and nature, he would do it himself, here, tonight. But Christine! He could never break a hair on her head. He would need to return her to life, place her in the hands of someone who could take care of her-that Giry woman perhaps. And then one day, she would find another lover, marry and be happy. And this man would take her out, to the theater or opera, and she would wear a dress like the one she wore tonight and be a goddess for him. But she wouldn't reject this man, no! He would be handsome, a god himself, equal to her great beauty, and at night his hands would brush those shoulders and pull the black velvet down, and those lips would kiss her body as her lucid eyes begged for more. And Erik would be powerless to stop it, powerless in the grave, cold and alone in a cellar for eternity. He could not let it happen. She was his! Already two innocent men had died, and their lives had bought her for him. If she left now, they would have died in vain and their blood would be on his hands. His only friend, the Persian, would have died at his own hands. It was unbearable, unbearable!-his dead hands covered in blood while his wife gave herself-gave the supreme gift that he had never received-to another. He could not let it happen. He could not let her live while he died, and so he would not die. The terrible rejection he always feared would be thrown aside, if it ever came and Christine would live in his house and share his room. She would share his room and be his wife, even if she cried, even if she screamed so that all the angels in Heaven heard her wretchedness, because he could not bring himself to hurt her. And if she ran, he would catch her, and if she hid, he would find her. The dress had made it obvious, in his blinding jealousy, that she was inseparably bound to him forever.

_Forever, Christine_, he though, _you are mine and no others!_

"Erik, you are quiet tonight, honestly. What is on your mind that is so much more interesting than me?" She looked a little hurt, though he could tell she was ready to forgive him by the smile that lingered in the corner of her mouth.

"It's nothing, my darling," he said, and he found that his nervousness had disappeared in his resolve. "I was just thinking that I will need to go out again soon. There are things we need and, well, you know how I hate crowds."

"I could go for you," she said, rather too quickly he thought.

"No, I'll go. I only wonder if you'll feel comfortable remaining here, by yourself, for a few hours."

Christine smiled and rose from the table. She walked to his side and knelt by him, placing her small hand on his. "Of course, Erik. I know you wouldn't let anything bad happen to me. I trust you."

"You are right to do so," he said. "For I would never break one hair on your head." He softly brushed her shining curls and smiled gently down on her.


	8. The Life That Never Was

Chapter 8: The Life That Never Was

Dinner was over. It was time. Nervously clearing his throat, Erik said, "Christine, I have something to show you." The anxiety in his voice must have been obvious, for Christine looked up, alarmed. "It's a surprise for you," he said quickly. "One that I hope you'll find agreeable." Erik rose from the table and extended his hand to her. She did not take it, but continued to watch him suspiciously. "It is nothing, really," he said, and finally, after several long moments, she hesitantly raised her hand to his, and allowed him to lead her into the drawing room.

The plans were still arranged on the desk, rolled neatly side by side. Erik took the first, a sketch of the exterior and gardens, and opened it. He stood back, gesturing for Christine to look. Moving forward slowly, she frowned in apprehension as she bent to examine the drawing. But when she saw the charcoal willows by the pond, the vines that crept to the leaded windows on the second story, the carved stone bench beneath the perfect hemisphere of a beech in the distance, the utter charm and romance of it all, she smiled.

"Erik, it's lovely," she said, her face bright and lively. "What is it for?"

"It is for you," he said. "I shall build it for you if it pleases you."

She turned to him quickly, the apprehension returning. "I don't understand. If I am to live here…well, where will you be?"

Erik was stunned. He had thought that she would be aware of his intentions, to understand that he wanted to play the role of husband and provide a normal life for them to share. He had prepared himself for the possibility that it might not make her happy, but he did not anticipate that she would misunderstand his proposition altogether. It seemed to him a bad sign. If she did not know what he wanted by now, perhaps she did not fully realize that she had promised to marry him. And if she did not realize this, if she was so cut off from reality, then perhaps she was not aware of what occurred in her room at night after all. Perhaps he was not satisfying her hidden longings, but only taking advantage of her confused state. But these games she played, showing one face by day and another by night, intentional or not, were destroying the tattered remains of his mind. Christine needed to know what he wanted once and for all; it was time for everything to become clear and open.

"I will live there too, Christine," he said pointedly.

"Oh," she said, and cast her eyes to the ground.

Erik unfolded the second drawing, floor plans of the two stories, with a mounting sense of doom. How would she react to the information that was laid out on the sheet before her?

Each room had a little label, written in Erik's scrawling childish script, listing its function. The upstairs consisted of three rooms: the bathroom, a large study, and the master bedroom. Christine's eyes searched the page, both upstairs and down, for some time, reading, rereading, trying to understand. Finally she spoke, and her voice was laced with nervous fear.

"Erik…I don't understand…there is only one bedroom." She pointed at the room in question.

"Yes, my dear," he said softly. "Only one bedroom for a man and his wife."

Her face blanched and her hand rose to her throat in terror. Backing away, her mouth opened, horrified, though she only whimpered pathetically. She hit the wall, and slid helplessly to the ground, and finally she managed to speak. "Oh, no, no, no," she moaned. "I am a good girl, a good girl."

Erik had seen her in this state before, and suddenly he was reminded of the first time her face had filled with horror-the night she snatched his mask away-and he felt burning pain ignite within him, in anger, misery, and loathing. It was terrible to see her like this now, when he had so hoped to make her happy. In a moment, she had torn down all of his dreams and left him bare, only an animal once more, with no right to dream or desire.

"What is the matter?" he spat, "You agreed-don't you remember-to become my wife. Will you reject me, turn your back on me, become the little seductress and betray me when I've always loved you, and would give anything to only be able to hold you in the night." He paused, catching his breath between great gasping wretched sobs. "I've been good, haven't I? I've never taken what I most wanted, though you tempted me beyond measure too many times. I've never harmed you or denied you when you reached out for me in the night."

"I..I would never ask that…I would never let you touch me," she stuttered, hysterical and crying. "I am a good girl, a good girl."

"No, never me. Never consciously, though you throw yourself at a handsome face without reserve!" He suddenly laughed, a disgusting, horrific laugh. "Ha! You stupid girl, you don't know what it is that you want. You deny me because I look like a corpse, though the man you love and desire, who you want to rescue you, and kiss you and make love to you in the night-Why he actually is a corpse!" And his terrible laughter continued, crazed and unaware of anything but the perverted joy that came as he realized, finally, that he had bested the dead young man.

"What do you mean?" asked Christine, and her voice was so small that Erik did not hear, but it grew louder as she repeated. "What do you mean, what do you mean, Erik, Erik?" She rose from the floor, and ran at him, hitting him feebly with her weak hands. "He's dead, he's dead!" she shrieked. But then suddenly she was quiet, and her hands fell limply by her side, and she backed away once more. "You killed him, that night. It was the water, wasn't it?" she asked. "You killed him and you never told me. You let me believe that he was safe, you let me believe our bargain had been met. Oh God, I _let_ you touch me," she gasped. "I let you, I asked you to." She looked down at her arms in horrified disbelief, as if her skin was marred where his hands had been. "I let you, I wanted you to, you murderer, you monster." She ran her hands along her arms, faster and harder, her actions becoming frenzied, her nails digging into her flesh, moving to her chest, scratching, tearing at her clothes and skin. Blood welled in the cuts she made, but her nails crossed the wounds again and dug in further.

She was out of her mind, shrieking incoherently, hysterically trying to tear away the defiled flesh that had relished in the touch of this creature. Terrified, Erik grabbed her by the wrists, holding them down, but she screamed when he touched her and struggled violently to be free. He did not let go, but held fast, desperate to stop this outburst, to calm her, give her the laudanum that would make her forget, and return to the happiness that they had realized. How could he have asked for more and risked losing the only peace he had ever known? Oh, he would do anything to make her forgive him, to forget what he had said, to forget the house, to step back only one hour in time.

"It was an accident, Christine, I didn't mean to kill him." He was crying freely, pressing his face into her hair as he held her from behind. "I love you, it was only an accident. I couldn't tell you, please forgive me, my darling, my angel, my only happiness…"

But she did not hear, for the screaming that began when he first touched her continued, unabated, terribly filling the small house with it's hoarse madness. Erik held her still, crying into her soft hair that smelt like lilac, like a womanly enigma that beckoned to him always but that he would never discover, listening to her screams of insane horror, gathering the fear inside himself with every passing moment, until he could bear it no longer.

"Please, Christine!" he cried. "Please stop, please, I beg you." But no matter what he said, or how he pleaded, she continued to scream as before. "I can't stand it anymore!" he shrieked, "Please, no more, the sound is terrible. I will make you stop if you do not on your own. Do you want me to touch you? I will do it, I will touch your face?" But she only continued to scream as before. He held both her wrists with one hand, and raised the other to her mouth. It was soft as he remembered it, and he could feel the heat of her breath on his palm as she struggled. Images sprung into his mind, images of happiness, of kissing her, of the look she wore when she beckoned him into her bed. He remembered the night he held her as he did now, from behind, and how she had relaxed into him, pliant and trusting. How he had kissed her neck and how it had made her shiver. It was not too late, was it? To reclaim that joy. Slowly, he lowered his head, but his mask was in the way; he could not kiss her.

But, oh, how he longed to, just once more. And love, supreme and passionate, flooded through him suddenly, as he moved his hand away from her mouth and took off his mask. Christine was silent, even when he placed his mouth on the curve of her shoulder, and for a moment, painfully exquisite, he believed that she accepted his touch. But then he looked at her, and he saw that her head hung limply to the side and his arm that lay across her chest no longer moved with her breaths. He fell to the floor, gasping, and Christine collapsed with him. Holding her in his arms, he saw that her face was marked with a handprint, red and deep, around her mouth and beneath her nose. Her blue eyes were open, and sparkled in the candlelight, though they horrified him with their emptiness. All was still. Christine was no more.

Strange, though he never imagined that harm would befall her, Erik knew exactly what to do. He wiped her face that was still wet with tears, and carried her into his room. The coffin was open, the lid propped against the edge. Holding her tightly, he lay down in his bed, and arranged her on top of him. The lid was awkward to move with her weight on him, but with his unusual strength, he heaved mightily and pulled it up. There was still a crack left open and in the remaining light he looked once more on Christine. In this house there was a potion that would hasten him on his way. But he had only a short time remaining with her, and he would not give up one moment for any amount of suffering. He pulled the lid closed, and the light vanished, never to shine upon the pair again.

He had hoped to share her bed, but in the end she would have to make do sharing his.

_The End_


End file.
